Children and women ran past Barrington shouting. One woman touched him with a long-nailed, dirty, scraggy hand.
"An aristocrat, citizen. Another head for La Guillotine," she cried, and then danced a step or two, laughing.
Barrington stood on tiptoe endeavoring to see the miserable passenger of the coach, but in vain. The men with pikes surrounded the vehicle, or the poor wretch's journey might have ended at the first lamp.
"It's a woman," said some one near him.
"Ay! a cursed aristocrat!" shouted a boy who heard. "Get in and ride with her," and the urchin sped onwards, shouting horrible suggestions.
"A woman!" Barrington muttered, and his frame stiffened as a man's will do when he thinks of action.
"Don't be a fool," said a voice in his ear, and a hand was laid upon his arm.
He turned to face a man who looked at him fixedly, continued to look at him until the crowd had passed, and others who had stopped to watch the procession had passed on about their business.
"You would have thrown your life away had I not stopped you," said the stranger.
"Perhaps. I hardly know."